


Maraas-Lok

by thethinkingfruit



Series: The Tale of Inquisitor Demenli Adaar [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Bad Coping Skills, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Here Lies the Abyss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9770117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethinkingfruit/pseuds/thethinkingfruit
Summary: The Inquisitor returns from Adamant Fortress and the Fade, and Varric deals with the aftermath.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Varric’s nickname for my Inquisitor, Demenli Adaar, is “Duckling” because when the Inquisition began, she followed Cassandra around like…well, a duckling. She’s also rather fond of splashing in puddles when she gets the chance, but he didn’t find that out until much later.
> 
> Another Fun Fact: Demenli did not handle going into the Fade well for numerous reasons. This is how she decided to cope.
> 
> Cross-posted from [tumblr!](http://thethinkingfruit.tumblr.com/post/157259088268/your-dragon-age-protag-and-varric-for-11)

          Varric, surprisingly, didn’t head to the Herald’s Rest very often. While he enjoyed a good drink now and then, every time he stepped into the tavern he half expected it to become the Hanged Man before his eyes where he’d see Hawke waiting for him at their usual table trying to play Wicked Grace with their usual crew. When he blinked and the Herald’s Rest remained, he was disappointed. It wasn’t that he had anything against the Iron Bull sitting sprawled on his sofa in a corner, or listening to Sera flirt with scouts that had wandered in, or patrons humming to the minstrel’s (sometimes extremely depressing) songs, but it just wasn’t home.

          However, it was comforting that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t frequent the tavern as often as people thought they would. In the eyes of Skyhold, Inquisitor Adaar needed a stiff drink more than anyone here but she rarely visited the place, except when she was coming to visit Bull, Sera, or Cole. Otherwise, she kept clear of the place. Some of the scouts and soldiers said it was because she had a private collection of the finest liquor stashed somewhere in Skyhold, but Varric didn’t believe that. He figured it was just because she didn’t like the taste.

          Then, Demenli went into Fade. Sure, it was her second time, but it was the first time she remembered. Varric assumed that it had been rough. He hadn’t been there. He wanted to be, but Demenli had chosen others to travel with her and meet with Hawke and her Grey Warden Agent (who Varric figured was Stroud—he was relieved to find it to be true later, then saddened by the result).

          Apparently, the trip was hell. Varric hadn’t been surprised. Varric had been in the Fade once. It had been an experience that he didn’t want to repeat, and after hearing Cassandra recall what had happened in it, and the aftermath, Varric was glad that he wasn’t there for the trip. Hawke was safe, and that’s what mattered—and while he felt bad for Stroud, the fact that Demenli and her chosen companions made it back in one piece overrode any guilt, mostly. She had made the right decision.

          Still, Varric found himself waking in a cold sweat one evening, and really craving a drink to help him sleep. His own personal stash was empty, so he got himself situated and wandered down to the Herald’s Rest from his room, figuring that it was quiet enough at such a late hour that maybe he could just grab a drink and go.

          Lingering outside the door for a moment, preparing himself, Varric took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He was pleased to find that the place was mostly empty. Most of the scouts had gone to their watch or to sleep, and even the Iron Bull’s hulking form was missing from his usual spot. Then, he turned to the bar. The barkeeper, Cabot, was quietly cleaning a few mugs with a dirty rag, and making what sounded like interested noises at a lump sitting on one of the stools and slumped against the bar.

          Much to Varric’s surprise, it was Demenli. He recognized her so quickly only by the fact that she was huge in comparison to everyone else—and was much too small to be the Iron Bull. Her hair was tangled and fly away, strung up awkwardly and stuck twisted around her horns in some places, and it looked like she was in a nightgown of some sort. Her feet were bare and she looked cramped on the little stool meant for humans, elves, and dwarves, but she made it work.

          “Another,” she said hoarsely and slid a mug as big as her head to Cabot.

          “I think you’ve had enough, Inquisitor—”

          Demenli slammed her mug, like a child demanding more juice. “Another!” she repeated. Her words were slurred and quiet, so garbled that Varric barely understood her. “What else do you get paid for?”

          Cabot scowled before he glanced at the door to see Varric. “You, Tethras,” he said, pointing a fat finger at him. “Do somethin’ with her. She’s been like this for an hour.”

          Demenli turned, focus off of the bartender. She blinked sleepily at Varric and she scrunched her nose.

          “Varric?” she asked, lost. “Tell him to give me Maraas-Lok. I-I know he has it…gives it to Bull all the time…” She slammed her mug again, frustrated. Then, she said something angrily in Qunlat, sounding fiercer than the Arishok. If Varric remembered correctly with his limited experience with the language, she effectively said, “This is bullshit,” but he wasn’t certain.

          Instead, he said, “Fancy seeing you here, Duckling,” and sat down next to her. Demenli’s eyes were glassy and red, nose looking irritated like she had been crying. Normally, she’d greet him with a smile, but all she could do was scowl at the barkeep for trying to change the subject. “How much have you had?”

          “Not much,” she slurred, head drooping slightly as if she were trying to hide her drunkenness. “Just a little.”

          “Four whole mugs,” Cabot replied. “I tried to cut her off at two but she managed to wrestle the tankard from me and get it herself and emptied the last of it. She’d probably get more from the back, but don’t think she can walk now without falling on her arse.”

          Varric chuckled lightly, and Demenli scowled fiercer than before. Cabot went to take the mug from her but she held it to her chest and mumbled, “No, mine,” and then slipped from the stool completely, falling flat on her back. Surprisingly, she managed to not knock anything over, but she curled up holding the mug like a teddy bear and refused to budge.

          “She’s been like this for how long?” Varric asked, surprised.

          “I’d give it an hour,” replied Cabot. “I figured she’d wander off but as you can see…”

          Varric got off the stool with a grunt and crouched next to Demenli. Demenli looked at him and said, voice soft and serious, “Meravas itwasaam.”

          “I don’t know what that means, Duckling,” Varric prompted gently. “You know most people don’t speak Qunlat around here. Hell, I don’t think even you speak Qunlat fully.”

          “Do too,” Demenli replied. She shut her eyes and Varric saw her whole body quake. “Don’t feel good, Varric.”

          “Well, if you’re drinking that junk that Bull always drinks, I bet your nerves are shot,” Varric replied. He helped her sit up, and she sagged against his shoulder. He narrowly avoided getting his eye poked out as she sat back, horns veering dangerously near his face. “Let’s get you to your room, okay? Can you walk?”

          “Mm. Just gonna stay here,” she replied.

          “You can’t, Duckling. People will be walking here tomorrow morning, and Cabot needs to close up shop. Come on, I’ll help you. One step at a time, right?”

          Demenli shook her head but tried to stand. She used the stool to help steady herself  her body unfolded and she swayed once on her feet. Varric only came to her waist so he wasn’t sure if she could really lean on him. There was no way in hell he could carry her, either. He wondered for a moment if he needed to go get Sera, who was probably fast asleep upstairs, or even try and find Cole, when Demenli decided to start wandering out of the Herald’s Rest on her own accord. Each step looked like she was going to topple over, tipping dangerously from side to side, and the steps were so small that Varric had no trouble keeping up with her.

          “Hey, hey!” he said, waving his hand and trying to grab hers. “Easy, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

          Demenli snorted but did not sound happy about it. She mumbled something under her breath and Varric slowly started to guide her towards the main bulk of Skyhold, towards her rooms. It was a lot of stepping, stumbling, and having Demenli be oddly quiet.

          “Y’know,” Varric began, his voice breaking the silence, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this wasted. You don’t drink normally, do you?”

          Demenli made a non-committal noise in response and nearly smashed face first into the stairs leading up to the main hall. Varric caught her by the nightgown and she tipped back, stumbled, and landed on the ground with a surprised, “Oof!” Deciding this is where she would stay, she flopped onto her back and refused to budge.

          “Oh for Andraste’s sake—Duckling, come on. We’re almost there.”

          “Too many stairs,” Demenli replied. “Not gonna.”

          Varric sighed and sat down next to her again. Above on the ramparts, he could see a guard watching. He waved them down, hoping that he recognized them or possibly could buy their secrecy to save the Inquisitor’s image. “Well, sit tight. I’ll find someone to carry you. We’ll get you to bed. You’re going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.”

          “No bed. Don’t wanna sleep,” Demenli replied. She turned her head to look at him seriously. “Bad dreams. Don’t wanna go back.”

          Varric, surprised, shook his head. “They’re just dreams, Duckling. Sure, you’re dreaming and you go to the Fade—but you’re stronger than that. You can fight anything if you put your mind to it.”

          “Can’t fight the inevitable,” Demenli replied. For a moment, she sounded so old, staring up at the night sky. “Can’t fight what you see and can’t get out of your head. Can’t get it out of my head…should’ve stayed. Everyone should’ve run and should’ve stayed, could’ve stopped it, couldn’t I?”

          “Uh…” Varric was quiet before he shook his head. “We’ll chat about this later, okay, Duckling?”  The scout had arrived—some fresh-faced recruit who was ogling Demenli for several reasons, none which Varric liked. “You, kid. Go get the Iron Bull. You know what he looks like. Huge, gray muscles, horns that could poke your eye out.”

          “Y-You want me to g-get—why—b-but—”

          “Because I sure as hell can’t carry the Inquisitor, and neither can you. She’s not feeling too well.”

          On cue, Demenli turned on her side and threw up. She lurched and hacked up what looked like dinner and a lot of the Maraas-Lok she had drunk. Varric helped her sit up, held her hair, and rubbed circles into her back until she caught her breath. Then she fixed a stare at the scout and snarled, “GO!” in the loudest voice she could muster. The kid practically shat himself as he ran to find help.

          “That feel better?” Varric asked, a final pat just landing between Demenli’s shoulder blades.

          “No,” Demenli replied. She leaned against Varric again and he made sure that she didn’t stick her hand in the puddle of vomit. “Varric? Does it get easier?”

          “What, drinking? Sure,” Varric replied. “It just takes practice—“

          “No. This.” She gestured at everything around her. “All of this. Does it? Pretending? Hiding?” She blinked blearily and rested her head on Varric’s shoulder. “It was in m’head, Varric. Knew my thoughts. Pickin’ at it piece, by piece, by piece…pickin’ at everyone else…”

          “It sounds awful, Duckling,” Varric replied softly. “But it’s all right. That fear demon can’t hurt you now.”

          “I hear it,” Demenli said, eyes clearing for a moment. “I can hear it, on the edge of my dreams, in the fade. Stroud fighting it. Echoing…” She closed her eyes, and sniffed. Her hands rose and covered her head. “It won’t stop.”

          Varric sighed. “I know, kid. I know. But for now…” He looked up and saw the Iron Bull (thankfully, wearing pants) striding across the courtyard, followed by the jittery guard. “Look? It’s your favorite Qunari! Inquisitor?”

          Demenli had curled up and refused to budge and talk. Then, he realized that she had passed out completely.

“           What the hell happened here?” the Iron Bull asked, crouching down beside them.

          “She got into your stash of…mass-lock?” Varric said, squinting a little. “She said it once or twice but it’s kind of hard to say.”

          “How much did she drink?”

          “Four whole mugs. Big ones. Like…your mug, big.”

          “Shit. She’s gonna be half dead tomorrow. Better make sure to tell Josephine to clear the calendar because the boss won’t be getting out of bed for at least a day.”

          Varric pushed Demenli into the Iron Bull’s arms. She went limp and her head bounced against his shoulder. Then, silently, the two started towards Demenli’s rooms. The trip was awkward and quiet, a mixture of their discomfort and just lack of conversation mingling with exhaustion.

          Demenli’s rooms looked completely untouched since she had returned home to Skyhold. The bed sheets had been cleaned especially for her arrival but a thin layer of dust had settled on her desk and furniture, and the hearth was cold. The Iron Bull got her situated while Varric started up a fire. When he gazed around and saw Demenli’s pained, pinched face in her sleep, he sighed.

          The scene felt oddly familiar to him, and it made his heart ache.

          From the bed, Demenli grumbled. The Iron Bull pulled up the covers and brushed some hair from her face, which made her fidget and curl up tight in a ball. “Better make sure she has some water by her nightstand,” he said. “And lemon. Sometimes that can take off the punch.”

          Varric nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make sure to get that set for her, she has a pantry of sorts up here.”

          “You stayin’?”

          “Yeah. Just for a while, to make sure she doesn’t need anything.” Varric nodded at the Iron Bull, who nodded back in understanding. Varric watched from the corner of his eye as the Iron Bull headed back downstairs, probably back to bed. Varric looked around and warmed his hands on the fire for a moment. He got the water set up, found some dried lemon, and left some bread on the nightstand before he settled at Demenli’s desk. The desk was huge, and his feet couldn’t touch the ground when he sat in the chair. Still, it was comfortable. He dusted off the inkwell and quill, and found some blank parchment, and decided to write. He kept watch until morning and tried not to grimace when Demenli whimpered in her sleep, and waited for the night to pass.


End file.
